By Any Means (16 page)

“How did you know my daughter?”

Ann didn't say anything. Kostya looked over his shoulder at his nephew.

“Put the mask on her again.”

“Kara worked for us,” said Ann quickly. “She and her husband took care of our money.”

Kostya blinked and took a deep breath. “How did she take care of your money?”

“Our business is mostly cash. She worked with investment banks and other companies so we could put it in the bank.”

“So she laundered it.”

Ann didn't respond. At least that explained why Kara didn't go to the police with Iskra.

“Did she know how you earned your money?” asked Kostya.

“Not at first, but her husband found out, and then papers and documents started going missing. When they stopped working with us, we didn't know what to do. We thought they were working with the government. When Daniel, Kara's husband, took Iskra, we knew we had to do something.”

“You decided to kill them.”

“Not us. My boss did.”

“What's his name?”

Ann shook her head. “I don't know. I've never met him. He tells me where to go to find new girls and arranges for me to bring them back to the U.S.”

“What about the money?”

“We send half of everything we earn via wire transfer to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

“Surely you know something about your employer, a name at least.”

She started to say something, but then stopped. “His name is Lukas. He's from Chicago. That's all I know.”

“Are you sure that's all you know?”

She paused.

“He has an accent. I think he's German.”

“What else?”

“That's it. I've never met him in person or seen a picture, and I don't know anything else. I work with the girls and manage the bed-and-breakfast. I don't deal with security.”

Kostya had always found it curious when he ran across people who went into business with strangers. You couldn't trust someone you didn't know.

“Thank you for your help,” said Kostya, standing.

Ann inched forward on her chair, her face drawn. “I told you what I know,” she said. “Please let me go.”

Kostya took a step back and glanced at Lev. “Get rid of her.”

While Lev removed a firearm from his pocket, Kostya walked toward the warehouse's exit. The shot that silenced Ann echoed in the warehouse but would be muffled by the building's thick walls, ensuring none of the neighbors heard. Kostya had bought it for that very feature. He may not have been able to get much out of Ann, but he could at least be assured that she wouldn't be running a bed-and-breakfast again anytime soon.

O
ne of the girls who answered Ash's greeting spoke a few words of Arabic, enabling him to determine that she came from Pakistan. Indianapolis wasn't replete with Urdu speakers, but Ash knew a few from his mosque. He called one family up; unfortunately, none of the adults in the Tahir household were home, but Sadia, the family's eldest daughter, was. She didn't have native Urdu fluency like her mother and father, but she spoke it better than anyone the Hancock County Sheriff's Department could bring in. With Sadia still on the line, Ash handed his cell phone to one of the Pakistani girls. The conversation was halting, but after a few minutes, the Pakistani girl started crying and then shouting to the other Pakistani girl. They hugged each other and then gestured for the rest of the girls to follow them out of their secret room.

There were nine of them in all, one for each of the cots with sheets on it. One of the girls had a yellow bruise on her cheek, but none looked malnourished. They huddled together, leaning against each other for support.

“We need some paramedics to check them out,” said Ash, looking at Sheriff Davis.

“They're already on the way.”

“Good,” said Ash, nodding. “I say we all put our firearms where they can't be seen and slowly leave. Hopefully they'll follow, but they seem pretty spooked.”

“They seem
terrified
,” said Davis, correcting him. “What the hell went on in here?”

Ash took a quick look around the room and shook his head. “I don't know if I want to know.”

The officers did as Ash suggested and backed off. As Ash had hoped, the Pakistani girls led the rest of the girls to the porch, but even with almost a dozen officers outside, no one quite knew what to do. Without knowing what went on, Ash guessed that it'd be a big investigation, probably too big for a rural sheriff's department to handle on its own. Likely, Sheriff Davis would call in the state police for assistance; they had good detectives, so Ash had little worry that they'd figure things out given time.

Until help arrived, though, the local officers had their hands full trying to communicate with their new guests. As it turned out, most of the girls spoke enough English to take direction but not nearly enough for an effective interview. A couple of them, from their conversations with each other, sounded as if they spoke Russian, but Ash couldn't differentiate between Russian and any number of other Slavic languages. He didn't even have a guess about some of the other girls' languages. Indianapolis had a couple of universities and colleges; maybe someone from one of their linguistic departments could help.

Ash left the girls on the front porch and went back into the house. Sheriff Davis stood in the entryway, his eyes panning over the interior.

“Have you guys secured search warrants yet?” asked Ash.

“Not yet, so we're waiting before we begin a real search,” he said. “We've detained Mr. Spencer.”

“If you need help, I'm sure my department will be happy to oblige.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Davis. “But I'm going to request the FBI come in on this. Those girls aren't local.”

“It sounds like you guys will be in good hands,” said Ash, reaching into his pocket. He took out a business card and handed it to the sheriff. “If you need anything from me, please give me a call. That has my cell phone number and office number. I'm on another case right now, so I'm going to head out.”

The sheriff slipped the card into a pocket on the front of his uniform and nodded. “I'll call you if I need you. And if anyone in the media asks, I'll give credit where it's due. We wouldn't have found this without you.”

“I'd prefer if you kept my involvement quiet. I've been on TV enough.”

Davis narrowed his eyes before nodding. “All right. We'll do that.”

“Thank you.”

Ash left the building and headed to his cruiser. The interior had turned into an oven in the summer sun, but at least his air conditioner worked well, something few cruisers in the department's aging fleet could boast. As he drove to the city, his mind kept coming back to the envelope Bukoholov had given him. When he stopped and thought about it for a moment, that tip bothered him just as much as the young women he had found. For all he knew, Bukoholov could have been sitting on that information for weeks or even months, waiting for the most opportune moment to turn it to the police, when doing so would provide the most benefit for him. Because that, above all else, was how he operated. Having the Dandelion Inn closed and its proprietors arrested furthered some end Ash didn't know about, gave Bukoholov something he wanted.

The old man had used him, plain and simple; he had known that going in. The part that rankled Ash the most, though, the part that would likely keep him awake at night if he let it, was that he couldn't do anything about it. As long as Bukoholov's tips allowed him to save someone's life, he had to follow up on them. The cost to his career didn't matter. At the end of his days, maybe Ash would be called to account for that, but now he did what he had to. In a world full of sinners, the good guys couldn't all be saints.

He took the interstate back to town but stopped at a gas station near I-465 when his cell phone started to ring. It was Mike Bowers. They didn't talk long, nor did Bowers mention the Dandelion Inn, which was good. Hopefully Sheriff Davis would do as Ash asked and keep his involvement anonymous. Bowers said the FBI's tactical team needed him to come in so they could go over the logistics of that night's swap, so Ash skipped going home and drove downtown. When he arrived, he found five people in the conference room waiting for him: Agent Havelock, Captain Bowers, Chief Reddington, and two other FBI agents with extensive tactical backgrounds. Someone had put an oversized backpack on the table along with a poster-sized map of the downtown area.

“We've got quite a bit to cover, so listen up,” said Havelock. He pointed to the backpack and told Ash to pick it up. They hadn't even put the money in yet, and it still felt heavier than any bag Ash had ever carried. “We're waiting for funds from the Cooks' bank, but that's the bag we'll be using. The first thing you'll notice about it is the weight. There's a layer of Kevlar between the nylon layers and a ceramic plate sewn into the back, similar to the ones found in bullet-resistant jackets. It'll provide decent protection against handguns, but rifles are iffy.

“We've also sewn a GPS beacon into the bag's lining, which should allow us to track it. In the eventuality that Palmer tosses the bag, we've slipped a thin, wireless transmitter between bills in two of the stacks of cash. They're similar to the beacons cross-country skiers use in case of avalanches, and, unfortunately, they have the same range limitations. You will have a microphone and earpiece on you at all times, so we'll be able to stay in touch. Finally, we will also have a helicopter on standby a couple of minutes out. Questions?”

“Yeah,” said Ash. “Can I get a watch that shoots laser beams? I've always wanted one of those.”

Bowers and most of the FBI agents tittered, but Havelock's expression didn't change.

“I'm afraid we're out,” he said. “Do you have any questions pertinent to this operation or your equipment?”

“I think I'm okay.”

“Good.”

Havelock turned it over to his two other agents to discuss the tactical setup. They planned to place three sniper teams on the roofs of three nearby buildings. That high up, they ought to have been able to cover the entire park, giving Palmer few spots from which he could hide and shoot. The exchange itself would be the easy part. Bowers would drop off Ash a couple of blocks away, and he'd walk to the appointed spot and wait for further instructions. Another team would wait at the Scottish Rite Cathedral to pick up Rebecca. Police teams would then shadow the bag—and whoever happened to carry it—hopefully back to Palmer. On paper, it sounded easy. In the field, though, things rarely went as planned.

Ash spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with his family at home. Normally, he would have taken the kids out somewhere, but with the temperature near the h
undre
d-​d
egre
e mark, no one wanted to leave the house. That worked out better for him, anyway, because it allowed him to conserve energy until sundown when he could eat and drink again. They had afternoon prayers together as a family, something they rarely had the opportunity to do. Megan seemed to like that. The kids went to bed at around eight, giving Ash a few minutes alone with his wife. She pretended to like his bad jokes, and he pretended to enjoy her terrible choice in movies. It was just nice to be with her.

At the appointed time, she filled a thermos full of coffee so awful Ash could feel his own life slip away every time he drank it. She had made it for him for the first time the day after they were married, and he didn't have the heart to tell her it was the most vile liquid ever to pass between his lips. Once the sun set, he'd have a few sips and then try to find something to water it down with.

He drove to the station on his own, but felt a little woozy upon getting out of his car. He almost had to sit back down. He had done a lot of physical work that day without water, so his dehydration was evidently catching up with him. The sun would go down in another half hour, and he could suck it up until then. When he got to the conference room inside the homicide department, he discovered that the Cooks' bank had come through with the money. Two bricks of one-hundred-dollar bills, twenty thousand dollars total, sat on the conference room table when he walked in. It carried a much heavier weight than its mass alone.

Ash took a seat as Agent Havelock went over the security arrangements again. He probably should have listened, but Ash couldn't force himself to pay attention to the same speech he had already heard several times. Instead, he tried to see the holes in their security plan; unfortunately, it didn't take a lot of imagination to find them. He wouldn't carry a gun, so his safety rested with the FBI's shooters if Palmer or his minions started firing at him. That would work for the open spaces, but not even the best marksmen in the world could see through trees or shoot around obstacles. He doubted the exchange itself would go smoothly, either. Palmer might not even show up. So many things could go wrong that Ash had difficulty envisioning it going right.

Havelock finished the briefing at about nine. Ash tried to stand, but became dizzy and fell into his chair. He didn't think anyone had noticed, but then Bowers came behind him and knelt to speak to him.

“I saw that. Tell me you're sober, Ash.”

Ash's mind felt clouded, so it took him a moment to process the comment. He eventually shook his head.

“I'm just tired and thirsty.”

“You're pale. Are you sick?”

“No, I just need some water. I haven't had anything all day.”

The corners of Bowers's lips inched upward.

“You're kidding me. It was a hundred degrees today, and you've been working outside.”

“It's Ramadan. The heat isn't an excuse.”

The beginnings of a smile slipped off Bowers's face.

“You look like you're going to pass out at any moment. I don't care if it's Ramadan. As your superior officer, I'm ordering you to drink whenever you're thirsty. Day or night, it doesn't matter.”

“I'll be fine,” said Ash. “People have been celebrating Ramadan by fasting since the eighth century.”

“I've given you an order. Disobey it at your own peril.”

“If my health is in danger, I'll have a drink, even during the day. Is that fair?”

“Yeah, good,” said Bowers. “Now go get a sandwich or something. You've got a long night.”

Instead of getting a sandwich, Ash took a couple of gulps of water at the nearest drinking fountain and then found a quiet spot for
Maghrib
, the fourth of five daily prayers. Only then did he go to the deli nearest the station and order enough food for three people. The other diners stared at him at first, but Ash didn't pay attention. He had begun focusing on his task that night. If everything went according to plan, Rebecca would safely be in custody in another few hours and Palmer would be wearing an orange jail-issued jumpsuit. He prayed that things would go that easily.

After dinner, Ash took a walk downtown, hoping exercise would banish his nervous jitters. A lot of very good people had given input on Agent Havelock's plan, and while no one described it as perfect, nearly everyone agreed that it could work. A lot hinged on the unknown, though, and that left Ash feeling apprehensive.

At about ten, Ash went back to his office and texted his wife to let her know that he was thinking of her. She responded immediately and said that she had been praying for him. Prayer couldn't hurt. He gingerly sipped the coffee she had given him; if nothing else, it woke him up. At about twenty to eleven, he and Mike Bowers left the building. The security teams had set up hours earlier, so their detail consisted only of Bowers's personal vehicle, a nearly new Honda Accord. Before dropping Ash off, he swung by the library where they would do the exchange. The park in front of it contained five square blocks of green space crisscrossed by sidewalks and festooned with fountains and sculptures. At that time of night, no one walked its paths or admired its decorations; Ash had rarely seen such a lonely, empty place.

In accordance with the plan they had worked out, Bowers dropped Ash off near Monument Circle two blocks away. He took a couple of breaths and swallowed the nervous pit in his stomach, then headed north. Before he could leave the Circle, a “homeless man” pulled a two-way radio from a bag of aluminum cans and said, “Good luck.” Ash nodded his thanks but mostly kept his gaze in front of him. He knew the area fairly well, having visited a bar off Monument Circle at least once a week during his drinking days. As he passed, he heard jazz coming from within. The bouncer sitting outside said hello but didn't seem to recognize him. That made Ash pause for a moment. Just a year ago, he could walk down certain streets in the city and be recognized by every bartender, cocktail waitress, or bouncer he passed. He felt proud of his new anonymity.